


Binary Attributes

by Phosphors (Bidawee)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Attempted Indoctrination, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Inspired by The Lobster, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Sex, Romantic Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Phosphors
Summary: George has 35 days left to fall in love before he’s turned into an animal. Faced with a similar dilemma, a fellow guest strikes up a deal.[aThe Lobsterau]
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 39
Kudos: 105





	Binary Attributes

**Author's Note:**

> There's no canonical tag for works inspired by The Lobster apparently, wowzers! Guess I gotta get on that. Sorry Georgebur tag. Go big or go home on the first fic, eh?
> 
>  _For those unfamiliar with the movie, here's a quick rundown to get you up to speed:_  
>  \- Story is set in a dystopian future  
> \- Single people are required to be in relationships; those that fall out of love or aren't in one by a certain age are sent to an institutionalized "retreat" (more of a facility) devoted to matching people up through the use of propaganda and trivial bonding activities.  
> \- The strict hotel rules are meant, in a clinical fashion, to foster love, as everyone in this society, is to be paired up romantically whether they want to be or not  
> \- The whole movie mocks romantic capability by saying people have to share superficial traits to get along (if two people get nosebleeds then obviously they're suited for each other; faking a trait to get along with someone is common, but punished)  
> \- Those that fail to fall in love within 45 days are turned into an animal.  
> \- BUT you can extend your stay by hunting down loners, which gives people more time  
> \- Loners reject society and relationships; however, they live as outcasts in constant danger of being captured
> 
> Aaand that's it! Hope you enjoy. I tried my best not to cram too much exposition in but I also don't want people getting lost. I highly recommend the movie but keep in mind it's made for mature audiences. [A trailer, if you're interested](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vU29VfayDMw&ab_channel=MovieclipsTrailers)!

The first day back after the weekend is decidedly the worst. 

George got used to having the free time to roam around and take in the glum surroundings of what is a hotel in name but an institution in appearance. He familiarized himself with the plain-dressed staff members--all in black-and-white uniforms with not a wrinkle in sight--and their ability to show up unannounced. The facilities of the resort, built to accommodate a healthy amount of people, stopped being so daunting to walk around in. He was even able to come to terms with the fact that he’s here, on a clock that never stops counting, even when he’s asleep.

When the week officially begins, so does the regimented agenda system that keeps tabs on what rooms he visits and with who. He tries not to look too disappointed when he sits down for breakfast, knowing it would attract the wrong kind of attention. There are too many eyes on him to risk it.

Without even handing him a menu, they serve him a slice of buttered toast to go with his morning tea. It’s much darker than he prefers, but they don’t deal in half measures. It’s either this, or just hot bread. He thanks the lady that serves him, and takes a sip of the hot beverage, feeling it burn his tongue and the roof on his mouth.

All of the single tables are set up in rows, which makes it easy to see what’s happening around him. The lady in front of him has tied her hair into a neat bun and pinned it with a jewelled comb. The man to her right is admiring it by pretending to lean back in his seat and stretch. They have been active proponents of a very timid courtship. It seemed like yesterday they had made their interest known to each other when they were sunning by the pool. The ease at which they interwove their words and hands is missing now; the man’s face has the realization of loss and his imminent mortality on it. George can’t stand to look at it for much longer.

The lady beside him is scraping her knife on the edge of her plate. It’s driving him mad. He gulps down most of the burning tea and turns away from the direction of the noise, toward the drapes that part the arch connecting their room to the extension. It’s made inaccessible to them by a velvet rope beside the sign that reads,  _ “couples only.” _

The couples dining area has more freedoms. The presence of the swaying spider plants by the open windows makes the whole room a lot brighter, contrary to the light baby-blue wallpaper in the singles area that makes it look monotonous and sad. Every couple is waited on by someone, able to drink as much coffee as they want as they browse the morning paper. They don’t even seem aware of the privilege they have, going about their day as normal. As if they don’t hold one of the only connecting ligaments to the outside world in their hand while the rest of them make do with the leaflets in their room as the sole reading material available.

A plate of eclairs is served at one of the couple’s tables. They look mouth-wateringly good, the chocolate smeared on in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Freshly baked probably. Nothing but the best for those willing to tie the knot.

The man to George’s right sneers. He’s holding his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table.

“I don’t think they’ve touched a single thing on their plates,” he says.

He’s referring to the couple by the window, who are picking at a fruit platter. Neither looks very interested in the food. Or each other, for that matter.

He turns to George with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Do you think it’s fair?”

George rubs his thumb and pointer finger together, kneading a crumb. “Is what fair?”

“That you and I eat the same meal every day, while they waste what they’ve got. What makes them different?”

“They found love.”

“Did they?”

George looks closely at the woman's face. She’s holding so much tension in it; every lip line points to displeasure. It’s hard to believe that something like love is as good as they say it is when it makes her look like that. Of course, it isn’t love. Not really. 

“No,” George answers honestly. The frown lines on the woman’s face deepen as her partner opens his mouth in a wide yawn. “I think they just found out that they’re incompatible.”

The man laughs. “I’m Wilbur, by the way.”

_I know,_ George wants to say. He’s been here long enough to have heard the gossip. Wilbur's one claim to fame is being the men’s record holder for the most captured loners. Despite having more time than anyone else in the hotel, nothing has come to fruition. _A lost cause,_ they say. Thus begins a paradox: never leaving but never going anywhere. It's self-torturous, really. George doesn't even bother going on those hunting missions for that very reason. If it doesn't happen in 45 days, it doesn't happen at all. Borrowed time always has to be paid back.

But Wilbur is different. He's one of the rare few with a visible apathy for commitment. He toes the line just enough to avoid getting in trouble but never does anything more than the bare minimum. The few that have tried to snag him would always turn around to see that he’s slipped out of their fingers at the first opportunity. An animal that doesn’t want to be caught simply won’t be, if it’s clever enough.

“I’m George," he introduces himself before he misses the opportunity. He's curious why Wilbur would speak to him now.

“How long have you been here, George?”

“Ten days. I have thirty-five more.” The reminder makes his voice go inward. His lack of any measurable success so far insinuates that the remaining days will go by just as fast.

“If it makes you feel better, I only have ten.” It’s said with the wrong emotion, like an inside joke the adults tell at a five-year-old’s birthday party. "I've stopped trying to buy more time. It's a run-out-the-clock situation now."

“I don’t know how you’re so calm. If I only had ten, I’d be freaking out.”

Wilbur takes a long sip of his drink. His throat bobs as he swallows it all done. He smacks his lips. “Well, there’s only so much you can do with the hand you’re dealt. I’ve been here for a couple months now; no sense trying to force something that won’t happen.”

“You don’t like anyone here?”

Wilbur stares at him, saying nothing. It takes him a second to realize that the waitress is standing right behind him, ready to take his empty teacup. George mumbles a cordial thanks, toying with the tablecloth as she takes his things and leaves toward the kitchens.

“To answer your question: no, not really. Love doesn’t do well on a time limit.”

“I agree,” he whispers, “but that’s kind of pessimistic.”

“More realistic than anything, I’d say.”

“Realistically, how else are you getting out of here?”

Wilbur cocks a smile at him, now completely disinterested in his meal. “That’s true. Sucks to be us.”

“There’s supposed to be five new arrivals today. Maybe one of them’s your person.”

“That’s the hope. But, I would be lying to you if I said I was expecting anything to change.” Wilbur finishes up, pressing his mouth to the serviette. It’s thrown down onto the table once he’s done with it; the tip unfurls, hanging from down the side.

“It was nice talking with you. Hopefully, we can see each other soon.”

Wilbur passes the maid serving George on his way out the door. She tries to stop him by raising her hand for a quick word, but he either doesn’t hear her or opts to ignore what she’s saying. It’s a kind of confidence that George wishes he had, especially when her eyes turn to him, implicating him of the same crime she was going to charge Wilbur with.

The rest of George’s appetite leaves with him. He’s starving but can’t bring himself to swallow even another bite.

  
  


Tuesday mornings have them cooped up in the conference room, listening to the quick-shot backstories of the guests who had just been delivered to them yesterday on a white school bus. All of them look completely out of their element. There are lots of unstraightened ties and loose blouses looking out at the crowd. They hope to see someone staring back, still naive to that falsehood. That will quickly change.

It’s a very boring ordeal. He’s dug scratch lines into the stuffing of the chair’s underside, looking for ways to occupy himself as the speakers droned on. None of it distracted him from the cramp in his legs that becomes more persistent the longer he’s rooted into place. A few of the attendees give him dirty looks for his constant fidgeting, though he could see the same signs of impatience betray themselves in their crunched brows and sighs.

People erupt out from the ballroom the minute the presentation is over. They split at the lobby, some off to relax in their rooms while others meander about, trying to find something to fill the remaining thirty minutes of their schedule block. George is hungry for fresh air and the opportunity to stretch, which takes him out to the front gardens and around the building. 

The central plains sprawl out for what feels like miles, with very little evidence of human civilization anywhere in sight. He gets his exercise climbing the small slopes by the ocean, overlooking the water as he’s taken high up on the cape. The land is pure and untouched, save for the green of the resort’s golf course. It’s void of people, which isn’t that far off from the norm. The place has always been lonely, even when he’s surrounded by those in the exact same predicament as him. Lots of it is because of these liminal spaces that feel inappropriate to exist in alone. Maybe it’s all on purpose, meant to make him desire the company of another. He would certainly be a lot less unnerved if that were the case.

Once his gut starts complaining, he makes his way back. It’s too cold and wet to fully enjoy the time he has outdoors without it pimpling his skin into gooseflesh. He’s about halfway there when he sees someone standing at the crest of the hill, on the side of the cobblestone path. He’s in a long coat, not looking like anyone else in their hotel-appointed button-downs, blazers, and slacks. The head of messy black curls could be none other than Wilbur.

“Hey, George,” he greets him. “I was hoping to see you.”

“You were looking for me?”

“I wanted some company. Would you want to walk with me?”

_ No, _ says his side-stitch.  _ Yes, _ says the memory of yesterday’s conversation and the relief to be had in connecting to someone. He doesn’t have that pressing feeling in his chest when he’s around Wilbur, the one that surfaces whenever he’s chewing the scenery with others, trying to follow along during their conversations and always ending up so bored with what they have to say. It’s easy to come to a decision, and he yields to Wilbur’s sense of direction.

Wilbur takes them down a path he’s not familiar with, away from the hotel’s amenities and the beaten road. It’s a windy day and the long grass is being flattened all around them. George toes himself a path with his shoes, his face whipped by the gusts blowing in his direction. Wilbur parts through, looking like some kind of religious figure. He can’t be dislodged or deterred.

George walks in his shadow, using him as a windbreaker until they descend down the hill. Wilbur frequently looks back to make sure he’s there, ushering him onward and away from any signs of life.

“Do you like coming out here?” Wilbur says, voice raised to be heard.

George matches his volume. “I prefer it to being around people. It’s, um, pretty sad and desperate in there.”

Wilbur clicks his tongue. “It is. I’ve had to deal with more than a few desperate characters since coming here. Some even more than that.”

Intrigued, George presses. “What do you mean?”

“I had a girl pretend she had issues tasting food to match with me, if that’s desperate enough for you. She had two days left and no suitors would want her, so she told the hotel director that we were a perfect match. Behind my back.” There’s a fit of subliminal anger to his voice that curbs the words, saying more than intended.

“What happened?”

“I caught her in her own lie. I ordered one of the worst dishes for dinner that night and watched her gag over it.” 

Come to think of it, it sounds familiar. On arrival, he heard one of the maids warn them about falsifying your shared characteristic with the intent to deceive. She somehow kept her voice blank as she listed the punishments in hierarchical order from tolerable to severe. The comedic timing couldn’t have been better: she served them their food right after, and stared ahead as they all played with their meals instead of eating them.

George shoves his hands into his pockets, aware it’s a dumb decision when the combination of the wind and the terrain has made falling a lot easier. He just needs to do something with them so they’re not swinging mid-air.

“...Did they have her punished?”

“I think they turned her into an animal that night, instead of the next day.” He sighs. “I feel bad, but she left me no choice. If you don’t protect yourself you get taken advantage of.”

“What animal did they turn her into?”

He turns his head to look at George. “I still don’t know. I don’t spend much time thinking about it. It will drive you mad.”

They reach the boundary of the hotel grounds, walled in by tall grate fences and a dozen or so cameras perched on top. Beyond that lie the woods, coniferous and leafy. 

There’s desire in Wilbur’s eyes. George could see him becoming a loner someday, donning a poncho and living out life as an opponent of the government rule. But that leaves the chance that one of these days he’ll be gunned down by tranquillizers, brought back to the hotel as a trophy so someone else can extend their stay. George doesn’t want to imagine the altercation there would be if it was him that found Wilbur. It would be a lot harder to aim the barrel at the nicest company he’s had since his arrival.

“George, what do you think is beyond the boundary?”

He squints. “The forest?”

“Beyond that.”

“I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.” He rolls his tongue between his teeth. “Well--I have thought about it, but no one has ever come back. If there’s nothing out there, then what?”

“Then what,” Wilbur repeats, testing the words to see if they stick. “Yeah. That’s actually a nice transition into what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The intensification of the eye contact burns George, who has to look away to salvage some of his composure. The drive that’s present in Wilbur could corrode anything it touches.

“Listen, I would be a hypocrite if I lied to you now, so I won’t. I want to get out of here. I was wondering if we could strike a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You have to promise that this stays here.”

He can’t really make a true promise without being informed by context, but he really doesn’t want to get into that. “Sure. Promise.”

Wilbur takes a deep breath, his whole body tensing. Anxiety gives him another inch in height, and he’s towering over George.

“I want to have a relationship with you.” His fingers curl around the knob of George’s elbow before he can step away. “Not that kind of relationship. I’m not in love, but becoming an animal isn’t great either, and I think I could at least like you.”

“Wh--” George turns around, self-conscious about who could be watching. Wilbur’s hand on his arm feels like a manacle. “What are you--do you even hear yourself?”

“I know it sounds crazy--”

“Crazy? It’s  _ illegal.” _

“I know. But what other choice do we have?” It’s strained through his clenched teeth. “What the fuck else is there?”

He catches his forehead with his hand, pressing down hard enough with his fingers to feel his skull. “So what are you saying?”

“I want to say we’re a match. We can use it to get out of here.” 

“But...we would be lying.”

“Everyone here is lying. No one falls in love on a deadline or because of an ultimatum.”

“A relationship can’t be built on a lie.” It’s the hotel’s motto, said verbatim.

Wilbur leans in to close the distance. “But I’m not lying to you. I’m lying to them.  _ We’d _ be lying,” he doubles back, “so we can survive.”

“We would have to be together the rest of our lives.”

“Only for a little while, until we get back to the city. I won’t hold onto you; you can do whatever you want.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I know it’s a lot. I know. But what's worse? To die of cold and hunger in the woods, to become an animal that will be killed or eaten by some big animal, or to live a temporary lie? I wouldn’t touch you, I wouldn’t  _ own _ you. It would just be for public appearances.”

He’s gnawed into the skin of his cheek, tasting blood and not the strike of panic that would usually accompany the act. So many intrusive thoughts have been snagged by his mind.

“I need a minute.”

“Of course.” Wilbur looks unsteady, now very aware of his surroundings and the chance that George might run. On the latter, George would never take the chance. Wilbur would sooner catch him than he could clear the hill, and desperate men do desperate things when their life is on the line.

Not that he would fear being hurt. He can’t let his mind take him to places like that.

How bad could it be, really? What are the chances that he finds someone else? If he doesn’t take Wilbur’s offer, someone else will. He might be missing out on a good opportunity and not even realize it until he’s down to his final days with slim pickings. Wilbur’s got a point: it’s unlikely he’s going to establish a genuine connection with anyone else. If anything, this might be more truthful. At least they both realize that the other is faking it, instead of convincing themselves otherwise and falling apart when the truth is inevitably revealed.

This could be a blessing in disguise. Not a shot at happiness, maybe, but a life preserver to hold onto until he reaches shore. Wherever that may be.

“Okay,” he says, feeling the world slow to a crawl around him.

“Okay?”

“If it gets us out of here, then fine. I’ll be your partner.”

He isn’t expecting the hug; he’s not sure where his face has ended up, pressed into the fabric of Wilbur’s blazer but not any specific part of the body. A hand is tangled into his hair, holding him there.

“Thank you so much,” Wilbur says, the first time he’s heard vulnerability from him. 

George acts as his pillar for as long as it takes Wilbur to return to himself, still shaking from the courage it took to ask.

  
  


Wilbur passes him a note at breakfast the next day, asking to meet in the courtyard after morning assembly. It’s printed on the hotel’s flowery stationery with just enough flow to the letters to constitute it being cursive. As far as invitations go, it feels very formal, and he’s self-conscious when he pulls it out of his pocket to read it. It doesn’t feel like anyone else should be allowed to see it, even if it’s as simple as a specified date and place.

It’s outside, by the sprawl of flimsy tables rooted down by chains pulled deep into the ground. He tucks his hands into his sleeves as he approaches, feeling underdressed and underprepared.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” Wilbur greets. “How are you?”

“Fine.” He shakily takes his seat. It’s cold, and somewhat damp. Wilbur might have wiped the rainwater off before he arrived. “How are you?”

“I’m, uh, good. Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Did you tell them yet?” He fights the urge to mash his hand into his cheek. The cuts on the inside of his mouth are still healing.

“No, not yet. Before we do that, we need a defining characteristic to share. That’s the first thing they’re going to ask us.”

“Yeah…” he trails.

“Is there anything really specific to you? Something they can’t doubt?”

“I can’t see colours,” is the first thing out of his mouth. “Not all colours. Just some. Green and yellow are very similar to me.”

“And I have trouble tasting. Hm.” He seems to seriously consider it, before he shakes his head. “No, they might say we’re too different. Do you have hobbies? Do you swim?”

“I don’t like swimming, no. I like working with computers. Sometimes I play guitar.”

Wilbur perks up. “I play guitar too. I’m a musician. I could say you’re my,” he squints, mouth hooking up, “muse.”

“I’m not very good.”

“No no no, that’s okay! No one will have to hear you play. They just need to know. I don’t think they check those things.”

Wilbur continues on about what to expect, answering his own questions before George can think much about them. Which is fine. Great, even. If Wilbur wants to be the brains of the operation, he’s not going to complain. 

It all feels like a lot. A lot, too fast. His doubts only pile higher when he sees how confident Wilbur is. He’s ready to commit everything to this lie, whilst George is standing there with cold feet. He’s never been that great of an actor. For the rest of his time here, he’s going to have to play a role that isn’t his. It’s going to become his life.  _ Wilbur _ is going to be at the beginning and the end of everything. 

They’re going to be different from all the rest. The failure of all those other relationships doesn’t come at the risk of someone airing their dirty laundry for all to see. 

“Hey,” Wilbur takes his hand, because he’s allowed to do that now. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ll take care of you. Don’t back out on me now, okay?”

Wilbur holds it long enough for on-goers to see, and hammers the first nail into their coffins.

  
  


“Guitar. How lovely.”

The room stinks of polish and he knows his voice has sounded nasally from holding his breath. The director seems immune to it, much more interested in the circumstances that have brought them to her office, hands clasped together to sell the image.

“Well, I’m happy for both of you. Especially you, Wilbur. I’m happy you took my advice.”

Wilbur’s mouth firms into a harsh black line. He says nothing, but he squeezes George’s hand tight enough for his knuckles to bleach.

She has already moved on, retrieving a hardcover-bound book in a leather jacket. The ink on the first page is smudged. It looks like a registry of sorts. Neat lines comb every page she flips to, until she reaches one with room to spare. A pen is lifted out of the wire cup to her right.

“Tomorrow, you’ll be transferred into a double room, with a larger wardrobe and a larger bathroom. You’ll remain in the double room for two weeks, and then you’ll have your honeymoon for two more. We will monitor you in the meantime, to see if there are any difficulties.” She scribes their names on the line. The cursive joins their names to the ampersand, and to each other.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No. Thank you.” Wilbur abruptly stands, their tethered arms bringing George with him. His chair moans as it’s pushed back by the force, riding up the decorative rug that’s laid behind them.

The butler opens the door for them as they approach, but not before the director’s voice cuts through the air.

“George.” 

Wilbur releases his hand. George turns around to look, his shoulders raised so high that he can’t see over them.

“Stay a minute. Wilbur, you can wait for him outside.”

He doesn’t know Wilbur well enough to know what the flash in his eyes is supposed to mean. By process of elimination, he knows it’s not good. All context clues are gone the second Wilbur is pushed out and the door shut, with George still inside of the tiger enclosure.

The director stinks of cigarettes and martini olives. It’s hard to stomach how overwhelmed he is as he sits before her once more.

“How is Wilbur?”

“He is...very nice and considerate. I’m lucky to have found him.” He speaks slowly, unable to make a mistake now. 

“I see.” 

“You don’t sound convinced,” he observes, every muscle in his body tensed.

“As director, I consider your well-being my topic priority. If you fail, then it is my failure too.” Her hand unspools its fingers, dangling in the air as she speaks. “I’m worried. Worried for you. Instruments are wonderful. I believe music has a way of bringing us together with the cosmos. Have you ever read the poem, ‘A Song for St. Cecilia's Day?’”

Poetry is not his forte, and he couldn’t say a single thing to convince her otherwise. He shakes his head.

“Lovely piece of writing; speaks to music’s God-like power. But ‘music shall untune the sky,’ as Dryden writes. It has a hand in destruction too, as I believe Wilbur will have in yours.”

She leans forward in her chair until he creaks. “It’s easy to say you share something common. I share a love of the fine arts with many people. But if I used that to guide my heart, I could have been deceived by just about anyone. It’s something I love, but it’s not a part of me. Something physical is much harder to fake.”

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“Wilbur is a fine man but if it’s music you share, then I’m afraid he may be using you. He has not been receptive to our education here, so it confuses me to see him find a partner when he was once so resistant to the idea.”

It prods at the coals in his belly, flushing his body with heat. If he’s found to be complicit, then there’s no saying what they might do to him. A hand in the toaster. Solitary confinement, to remind him that true partnership is valued above all else. Or they might just do away with this procedure and turn him into an animal, to be lauded as a warning to the other guests of what happens to those who try to abuse the system.

By the care in which she arranges her words, he can see she’s fishing for a confession. To say it was Wilbur’s plan, that George was naive and hoping for companionship and believed in this relationship despite the warning signs, might acquit him. He would be released back into his hotel room, to barter with his skills and interests until he finds his intellectual equal.

But he found that with Wilbur. This is just as much about his freedom as it is George’s.

He pushes on. “We have other defining characteristics we share. His lack of taste. My colour blindness.”

Her nails drum on the mahogany. Fearing her impatience, he continues.

“One of us can access the world that the other can’t. I’m his sense of taste at meals, and he’s my pair of eyes when we go on walks.” 

Not a lie. Wilbur has done that for him. Twice now. His voice doesn’t waver as he recollects it; there is a genuine appreciation for how Wilbur considers him. 

“And do you love him?”

“I do. As he does me.”

The corner of the director’s eyes soften. She sits back.

“Then it seems my worry is misplaced. I apologize. You’re free to go.”

He bows his head, but can’t keep up the appearance of respect as he makes his escape.

Wilbur stands just outside, in the entourage of the hotel staff. He looks unusually small in their presence. Something is missing.

George opens his arms, trusting Wilbur to catch him. His nose and head cleared, he can finally breathe. Wilbur’s hand runs up and down his back as he shushes him. It’s a picturesque look, and it may very well clear them of suspicion.

  
  


The double room gives them enough space to function apart from each other. The one bed makes it difficult to have personal space but they make up for it by claiming separate sections in the wardrobe and working out a schedule that gives one the shower while the other can practice guitar or chess without being disturbed.

He wishes he could do something about the floral curtains and the old furniture that sets them a few decades back. At least it’s got more life than the single room he was in. A lot of that is because of Wilbur, who adds the shape of another body beside him in bed and the white noise of breathing at night.

It also comes with a lot more monitoring. The sound of dress shoes trodding the hall carpet has become just as routine as the chime of the clock at twelve. He knows they listen in. There’s too much evidence: the persecution of singles sneaking personal items into their room and being found out for relationships and indulges that no one but their diary could know about is a daily reminder that privacy is not to be found here. 

George can hear them stop at the door sometimes, saying nothing but being known. It’s impossible to ignore at night, when the overhead hall lights cast long shadows. He holds his breath when they come, and hears Wilbur do the same. Wordlessly, they agree something has to be done before they get called in for not acting like how a couple should.

So they started using affirmations. George would be turned around at the window with Wilbur behind him, speaking old cliches into new life as they looked out at the dreary scene. He likes that. Wilbur’s chin resting on top of his head makes him feel contained. If the words were said quieter--not intended for the audience just outside their door--he could believe some of this was real.

Maybe it makes him a bit of a masochist when he suggests they start doing it in view of the other guests. Wilbur takes it in stride: his eyebrows jumping up in surprise once George finishes speaking.

“That’s a good idea.”

  
  


When Wilbur inquires about changing their routine up a bit, he all but leaps at the opportunity. The apprehension of being caught has made him so nervous that he’s barely left the room, which means Wilbur has barely left the room. If George is feeling cooped up, then he’s probably gone stir-crazy by now.

It’s nice, being able to skip out on propaganda sessions because they don’t have to be lectured to about love anymore. With the singles kept occupied, certain places in the hotel open up for use. The pool is one of them. The open space mitigates the fact that it’s just the two of them down there, giving them the necessary room to breathe.

George is in his swim trunks but has kept his shirt on, wanting to seem like he was open to the idea of participating--for Wilbur’s sake--even if he has no intention of getting in. The only thing he can think of doing right now is relaxing. The water produces a tidal reflection on the walls, much like an overhead projector his teachers would use in school, and together with the hum of the water filter in the background, he can imagine himself as somewhere other than the resort.

Wilbur is in the water, practicing his backstroke. The water peels around him, lapping at the skin when he surfaces and pushing out in a small wake. He swims right before him after finishing his lap, gasping for breath as the water releases him from its grasp. The stench of chlorine in the air thickens until it’s tangible.

George watches Wilbur shake the water out of his hair like a dog, arching away to avoid getting wet himself. “Looking good.”

Wilbur ducks his head to accept the praise. “Thank you.” Dots of water freckle his skin. His hair drips water into his eyes, a few curls coiled behind his ears.

“Do you swim a lot?”

“Sometimes. We were always around water when I was a kid but I only ever used it to cool down.” Wilbur pushes a wave of water forward with his hand, splashing it over the drain that sits by the edge. It gurgles on it, sucking the water down. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

“I’m not a big fan of water.”

“Scared I would beat you in a race?”

“I  _ know _ you’d beat me. It’s smarter to not even try.”

It’s not funny, but Wilbur laughs. He’s been doing that a lot more lately. Of all of the sounds in Wilbur’s vocabulary, it’s definitely the one George likes the most. It only rears its head in the rarest of occasions, reserved almost exclusively for him. For that reason, he feels rather honoured.

From a strictly aesthetic perspective, he knows why Wilbur would be a popular contestant for people’s affections. The hotel has its fair share of widows and divorcees, people who know love by its ability to give and take and are much more careful with who they give their heart away to, but most look for the image of good partnership: young, charming, and interesting to talk to. If he was to apply that same criterion to himself, he might not make the running. Of all the people for Wilbur to pick, he’s surprised it was him, and he’s been mulling that over ever since his conversation with the director. Random chance feels like too big of a gambit.

He leans forward on his hands. “Can I ask a bit of a personal question?”

“Go for it.” Wilbur sounds a lot more confident than he looks.

“Have you given up on love?”

Wilbur’s arms breach the water, resting on the side of the pool. “Yeah. Maybe.” Doesn’t sound too torn up about it. Most have to freefall before they can declare something like that.

“I’m guessing they’ve tried to change your mind.”

“Oh, they’ve tried their best to indoctrinate me. I’ve seen every instructional video, every propaganda play they put on. Everything about how much better life is with a partner. All of it’s shit. The only reason ‘love works’ is because anyone who disagrees gets shot in the back.”

It’s spoken with such vehemence that George flinches. Wilbur’s face smoothes out when he sees it, eyes lidding.

“I’m not keeping you from anyone, am I?” George stares at him, asking for context. “You’re not still thinking of looking for someone?”

George pulls his knees up to his stomach. “Even if I was, I wouldn’t find it here.” His feet slide on the edge of the chair as he tucks them in.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you down.”

“It’s not you. It’s everything else.”

He hears Wilbur slip back into the water, submerged to his mouth like a high turtleneck. As awkward as the conversation is, George doesn’t want him to swim away. 

“You know, I had this dream last night where I was a rabbit in the forest,” he says, without any clear direction in mind. He’s burning what he can so he can keep talking. “All I could do was keep looking behind me and I didn’t know why. Maybe I was trying to find you.”

Wilbur’s confusion is palpable. “Want me to psychoanalyze you? Maybe it’s  _ symbolic.” _

“I once wanted to be a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?” He can see humour line Wilbur’s brow. 

“When I was young, my family had a pet rabbit. I don’t know if he was a human in a past life or not, but he had it good. Spoiled to death; literally, I think he ate to the point where he couldn’t move. Or it was old age.” He shrugs. “Either way.”

“I couldn’t be a rabbit. There would always be a bigger animal. Fox, wolf, human.”

“I’m clever. I could outsmart them. Catching a rabbit is very difficult.”

Wilbur’s grin doesn’t sit straight. “Probably.” It slips off of his face. “You know, I hear that loners use rabbits as courtship. Maybe that’s it.”

“I didn’t know about that.”

“Yeah, it’s like...an offering of sorts, or something.” 

“So I’m the consummation of someone else’s courtship.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you know what animal you’d be?” he lamely pivots. 

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not becoming one. Thanks to you, of course.”

“Yes, but hypothetically.”

“Why’re you asking?”

“I think the choice in animal says a lot about a person. More than can be said at those cheap meet-and-greets.”

“To be completely honest with you, I don’t even give it thoughtful consideration. They can do whatever they want with me. But I can tell you one thing,” he leans in, resting his chin on the cross of his arms, “I wouldn’t be a fucking rabbit.”

George snorts, looking away. “Then we wouldn’t be compatible as animals.” He winds false-hurt around it.

“Who cares? We work as people.”

He gives George a wide grin as he pushes off from the wall with his foot, sinking back into the veil of water like it’s a second skin. George reciprocates the look for as long as it takes for Wilbur to get away from him, before it slumps.

  
  


Routine finds its way into everything they do. Breakfast stops being a negotiation and becomes a trade. Food is cooked a certain way and it’s not always up to standard. They put way too much pepper on the eggs and its slimy texture when he punctures it with his knife is enough to make him gag. But Wilbur doesn’t mind, so George nabs a slice of undercooked toast from him in exchange and lets him help himself to whatever he wants to take as thanks.

They don’t even have to say it. It’s just their language, forged out of necessity. The less others have to know, the better.

  
  


They somehow graduate to kissing. It was Wilbur’s idea. Something about the way people were looking at them, which makes sense. Compared to the other couples, they don’t touch as much. That line of thinking didn’t prepare him for Wilbur’s hand on his shoulder and him swooping close to give him a small peck in view of about a dozen.

To his credit, Wilbur was completely red-faced once the impulse fell away. Probably nothing compared to George though. He knows he must have looked like an idiot, staring ahead with his mouth ajar and cheeks fanned with blush. He shrugged off Wilbur’s apology later because really, he was overreacting. He should have expected it. Couples kiss. 

What was supposed to be a one-time thing...continued. They use them to ward off suspicion, one pressed to the other like getting a shot at the doctor's office and finding about the same amount of joy in it. The heat on George’s face lasts long after they’re back in their room, back turned to the other as if it will reinforce the boundaries they just stepped over by holding the other in their arms. It’s more overt than arranging a bouquet and can be done in less than a quarter of the time, so he can’t get angry at Wilbur for defaulting to it.

It would be easier if not for the knowing grin he receives each time they do, like they’re kids playing a trick on the parents. They never talk about it, so things never get out in the open, and a vicious cycle of doubt and longing ensues. He spares Wilbur those feelings, reciting the lines they need for their performance and tucking the rest of it under him when he goes to bed at night, hoping it’s too dark for Wilbur to see how torn up he is. 

  
  


He’s decided he doesn’t love Wilbur, but he’s making it hard for him to stick to that stance.

He’s a great guy to hang out with, someone he can talk to without fearing it will wash up on the director’s desk and stain his name black. If it wasn’t forced to grow into something else, they would have been friends. Unfortunately, his brain is trying to decipher too many mixed signals. It sees George call Wilbur partner, then wonders why George backpedals on that ten minutes later because they’re in the safety of an empty hallway.

It’s at a point where he can’t detect which is which anymore. The fatigue makes him read too much into the hand on his waist when Wilbur is walking him up to their room at night, or the way he conditions his voice to not scrape his ears with morning roughness. Being considerate shouldn’t mean anything more than respect for him as an individual but there’s always that asterisk up above that is their pretend relationship. If only Wilbur was less good of an actor.

  
  


On the day he arrived, the desk receptionist informed him that the tennis and volleyball courts were reserved for couples only. He never thought about it again. He’s never been that good at tennis, or had any reason to play it. Even when he joined himself with Wilbur, they mostly concerned themselves with the recreational arts as a way to pass time. Supposedly, that’s not enough “quality time” for management; they send a concierge after him one day when he’s returning from a quick question at reception. The lady gives him quite a scare for her small size, though she’s in no way surprised to see him.

“Good morning. I’m informed that you and your partner have yet to access our facilities here.”

Her eyes are wide, but not in a way that assures kind intent. They’re a bit owlish in their design and he feels like the victim of an ambush by someone much smarter than him.

“Have you and your partner had the opportunity to play?” she asks.

“Um. I don’t--” He looks back for Wilbur out of instinct. Being alone puts him in a very undesirable position. “I’m not sure if that’s something we would do.”

“Partners that exercise together are more closely bonded. I really must advise that you do.”

She folds her hands in front of her stomach, as if saying a prayer, and takes her leave.

He forgets how to stand like a human being, replaying the conversation over again in his head with his arms straight by his sides. Once he remembers how to move his legs, he runs to Wilbur’s protection and tells him what she said, which he responds to with a shrug and a “well, guess we’re playing tennis.”

It’s precautionary. No one around here mentions things to be helpful. Recommendations are not suggestions but cleverly disguised warnings. Walking up to the front desk and asking to rent equipment feels like a trap but at least he’s got Wilbur there with him that time. It makes all the difference when he’s asked to use his courage.

The weather is too foul to play outside but they are permitted to use the indoor court. They didn’t even need a reservation in advance. He would say that surprises him, but since making the transition into the couples-exclusive activities, the disparity between them and the singles has grown ever larger. At breakfast, he feels their eyes on him as he saws into his food. Only, they’re not like the couple they saw on that fateful day, who are now in the room down the hall from them and do nothing but bicker long into the night. He overheard the concierge saying they would assign them children to help them resolve their problems.

No, Wilbur is much more patient with him. Even now, as he waits for his serve. His mindfulness is admirable. George respects it more by the day.

George serves the ball up, striking it hard towards the other side of the court. Wilbur volleys it back to him, returning it some speed. George lunges to the side to hit the ball, it almost smacking into the racquet’s throat and injuring his hand in the process. Over the squeak of their sneakers and the cacophonous slam of the ball meeting wire, he tries listening to make sure he’s not burdening him.

For the sake of both of their lungs, the games don’t last much longer than a few rallies. A lot of it’s a show for whoever’s on the camera, watching to make sure they behave. George hates every second of it.

Wilbur’s half-hearted swing gives George the next point and there’s no climax of victory that comes with it.

“Call it there?”

Wilbur is breathless. “Yeah. Fuck this.” He throws his racket to the ground with no care. The court is abandoned with similar disinterest; both of them make their way over to the side where they’ve thrown their bags.

He takes a generous indulgence of his water, some of it escaping out of the corner of his mouth and running down to his chin. He uses the back of his hand to wipe it away. Wilbur reaches around George to grab a towel, the surprise of him being there almost making him cough up what he swallowed.

“I think we finally found something we’re both shit at.”

George agrees with a laugh. “This feels like the opposite of a bonding activity.”

“Is that what she called it?”

“Yeah, kinda. She said something like ‘couples that spend time together are better matched.’”

“What we were doing before wasn’t spending time together? God, this place. I’m going to be happy to get out of it.”

“Two more days,” George tells him. His stomach squeezes. It’s been a constant reminder reinforced by the knowing looks he gets from everyone.

He wonders how Wilbur feels. He’s been oddly quiet about all of this being made official, when in the early days he would have no problem going off on a tangent about how inefficient it is. George can’t think of anything more rant-inducing than a ceremony celebrating the end of bare minimum courtship; yet, he’s heard nothing on the subject save for Wilbur rolling his eyes once when the director used them as a case study for another couple.

He sets his racket down. “Why did you pick me?” he asks, and that wasn’t the question he was thinking of but the words are out, and he can’t take them back.

Wilbur gives him a considerate look, trying to see his intention and purpose. George has nothing to show him but his own curiosity.

“I saw you at that banquet they held for the married folk. Everyone was out on the floor mingling but you hugged the wall and couldn’t be bothered with anything. At first, I thought it was because you were new but there was something there that just seemed so…”

“Lost?” Which is what he remembers.

“Tired. You had just got here and you were already ready to leave. It was what finally made me realize I couldn’t keep doing this. I could stay here forever if I wanted just by catching loners, but that’s no life. And I knew the longer stayed on my own, the more they would hound me.”

“The director said she was proud of you when I met with her. What did she mean by that?”

Wilbur stiffens up. “I was her, uh, pet project. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to find someone. They put me through hours of their training, probably to frustrate me until I settled down. It was this constant ringing in my head, day in and day out. I fucking hated it.”

“So you did.”

“Did what?”

George rubs at an imaginary patch of dirt on the racket. “Settled down.”

“I don’t see it like that.”

He watches Wilbur slide his glasses back on, an air of nonchalance about him, and can’t hold himself back anymore.

“What happens when we go back to the city? You said you wouldn’t ‘hold onto me,’ but I don’t know what that means.” A bit harsh on the landing, but he tries to soften his eyes to hide the frustration brimming underneath. 

“I’m going to try leaving the country. There’s got to be places out there that aren’t so tied to the notion of relationships.”

If Wilbur leaves, he’ll be without a partner. Without a partner, he’ll be sent back here. Another washed up once-was, trying to find someone that captures the memory of a much happier relationship. It was what he feared, and what he was bracing himself for.

Wilbur nudges him. “I can see you thinking. Tell me what’s up.”

“What about me? What should I do?” It’s a genuine question. Part of it feels rhetorical when he says it out loud though.

“You can come with me. If I go, that is. I’m not sure. I’ve heard rumours but I’m not sure if such a place even exists.”

“What if it’s fake?”

He sighs. “Then we try to get along without trying to kill ourselves.”

“What if we’re always expected to be with each other? Can you handle that?”

Wilbur slowly places a hand on the small of his back. “I like being with you. I would like you even if we weren’t forced to be together.” He leans into him, their hips pressed together. “And maybe it makes me look stupid, but I’m angry I didn’t have the opportunity to learn you like I normally would.”

With minimal adjustment, George manages to lie his head on his shoulder. “Me too.”

He wonders what that would be like. If he could meet him at the supermarket and strike up a natural conversation that ended with a relationship opportunity. It’s so cruel to dangle it in front of him. He’s definitely making it worse by initiating contact. If only he had the strength to pull himself away before it got too deep.

  
  


“We could run away right now.”

George looks up from his book. Wilbur is at the window, made beautiful by the moon-drenched glow that contours his profile. He can draw from the sound of the truck engine and the occasional bright flash of circular light that there’s a routine patrol outside, done carding through the woods for loners.

“What, like, leave? Now?” George asks.

Wilbur’s eyes are dark when he turns, gorging on whatever light they can find in the zoom. “Who says we have to go to tomorrow’s fucking banquet anyway?”

“Well, we have to go. It’s why we’re doing this.”

“So what? They can show us off? Just another success story?”

George claps his book shut, setting it aside. “Where is this coming from? What’s wrong with you?”

“I just,” Wilbur pushes his hair back with one hand, “I can’t--” George can see the arm on the windowsill shake with an emotion Wilbur can’t translate for him. 

Instead, George pats the spot next to him on the bed, smoothing out the covers so that the bumps of the kicked blanket don’t make it uncomfortable to sit. Wilbur plants himself down, clawing up handfuls.

He knows that Wilbur is vengeful. If he could, he would assemble anyone who would heed the call and torch this hotel as a symbol for this broken system they’re in. George couldn’t answer it; he knows that without even having to think about it. As much as he hates being here, he needs the assurance of having someone, of having a  _ place. _ There needs to be something to fall back on.

The loner life suits Wilbur more. George can’t give him what he needs, and his eyes glaze over with that realization. No matter how you slice it, their friendship is over. Their values are incompatible. 

May as well rip off the band-aid while he still has the bravery to do it.

“You should go,” he tells Wilbur, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “I’ll cover for you.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t know. I’ll stay here. Survive.”

“With someone else,” said as a declaration.

“Well, yeah. I don’t have a choice.” Wilbur is not naive. He knows George is resigned to this life, even if he’s lost all hope in it. “I couldn’t make it on my own. I’d rather be forced to be with someone than forced to be alone.”

“Does that really make you happy?”

He gnaws at his bottom lip. “I don’t know about ‘happy.’ It makes me feel comfortable, and I know you’ve never felt that here.”

Wilbur lets go of the bed covers to steady a hand on his knee. “I’m not sure about that.”

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me. I get it. I hope you find what you’re looking for in life, if this is goodbye. Unless you still need my help.”

“You’ve already done plenty.”

Loudly brushing his teeth can’t camouflage the sound of Wilbur rooting around in the wardrobe, no doubt rounding up his belongings to find out what he can take with him. He’ll be little more than the animals roaming around in the wilds out there by himself, and if George’s clothing would fit him then he would leave out a few blazers for him to keep warm under. The best he can do now is pretend none of this is concerning to him and burrow under the covers so Wilbur can work undisturbed.

In his head, he prepares a story and a reaction to what will be the open bedroom window. At least he won’t have to act out the grief.

  
  


Someone is breathing beside him when he comes to. It’s early morn and the sunlight is bleaching their blankets, reaching all the way to the door. One stray beam has slapped his forehead and nasal ridge with a burning heat, forcing him to move so it’s not directly in his eyes.

He sees a puff of dark hair and everything catches up. He’d gone long into the night anticipating what was to come and he knows this isn’t a hallucination or a figment of his imagination; Wilbur said he was leaving, but he’s right there beside him.

“Wil!” he whisper-yells, his fingers pinching the skin of his shoulder as he shakes him. The adrenaline that’s pulsing through him has ignited every nerve in his body.

Wilbur’s eyes flip open, but he’s sluggish to move. “Wha--” 

“Did you pass out? What’re you still doing here?” He yanks the covers away. “C’mon!”

George is on his knees beside the unmoving shape, not sure what else he can do. Wilbur looks more inconvenienced than anything. One arm is lazily reaching for the covers so he can conceal his legs again, chasing the warmth.

George nudges at him again, lighter this time. “Wilbur, get up. You have to go now.”

“Not going,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t wanna go.”

“You did. You told me.”

“No…” He rubs at his face, so uncoordinated that he almost jabs his thumb into his right eye.

George sits back on his bent legs. “Well.” He doesn’t know what to say. He rubs his hands on his knees to relieve them of sweat. “Then we got the thing today.”

The banquet. The send-off. It’s the last chance to back out before they’re officially declared a couple. If he was Wilbur, he’d be freaking out. If he was in his right mind at the moment, he’d also be freaking out. This is larger than either of them and yet, Wilbur’s response is to stretch out and gratify the urge to sleep in. 

“Wilbur?”

_ “What?”  _ he groans.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No. Can you lie back down? You’re too fucking loud.” One arm waves awkwardly around in the air until it makes contact with George’s undershirt and pulls him down on his side. 

George stares--for a long time. He watches the subtle movement of Wilbur’s shoulders as he’s dislodged from the world of the living and swept back into a deep sleep. Part of him fears that Wilbur will come to a few hours later and be hit with the realization that he lost his chance, and the guilt of knowing he could have tried harder would never fade if that was the case. 

The analogue clock across from the bed ticks on and Wilbur still doesn’t move. And George, horrible as he is, doesn’t try to wake him again.

  
  


It’s a modest celebration. There are a few balloons. The room is sparsely decorated and the blinds are drawn to shroud them in the amber colouring from the overhead chandelier. It’s the same place where their so-called instructional seminars took place, and the few streamers they have around are like putting lipstick on a pig. 

He’s ashamed by how much time he spends cowering behind Wilbur but it’s hard to have every resident in the hotel focusing on him. It’s like it’s his first day all over again, trying to come up with something interesting to say but too focused on not dropping the microphone to make the delivery sound smooth. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do that much talking this time around. All he has to do is accept an odd plaque from one of the maids as the director looks on with pride.

“I’m happy to report that they are perfectly suited. They both have a hobby in the guitar and have proven to be part of the other’s whole. After two weeks with us, we congratulate the work they put into their relationship.”

In hindsight, two weeks is not a lot of time. It feels like more than it is when you spend every waking moment together. Every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every morning and every night; there’s a sense of constancy. Going cold turkey now would be like taking a kidney. For that, he’s happy that Wilbur stayed. He’s happy for a lot of reasons, actually.

The director, still on the microphone, speaks on behalf of the room. “We wish you every success and we hope you will return to the city as a couple.”

To the applause of the room, they descend down the small set of stairs to the room’s centre. The small band starts up and gradually, people rise from their seats and join them in a low, slow dance. For some, this will be their matchmaking opportunity. If any part of him still cared, George would be offended that they couldn’t have the decency of a single moment together. 

Wilbur holds him close, hooking his chin over his shoulder and moving his hands down. He can see some of the singles look on in envy. They have to obey the rules of chastity as they somehow navigate the unspoken rules of courtship.

They turn, and Wilbur’s looking at what George was. “Wouldn’t want to be them,” he whispers into his ear.

“I had no idea I looked like that.”

Wilbur ghosts his lips with a kiss, but leans his whole body in to act the part. George almost chases him.

“It was miserable, wasn’t it?”

“Horrible,” he agrees. He tilts his head up. “If I can ask, what made you stay?”

Wilbur makes a non-committal hum. “This place fucking sucks but you’re not that bad. Beats foraging around the woods alone. And I may not have made a vow, but we promised to stick together.”

“I’m happy I found you,” George whispers in confession, and he doesn’t care if it disturbs the peace. It’s too low to be picked up on by others, not said for the benefit of the facade they’ve put on.

The hands on his hips press in harder.

“Me too.”

  
  


Their parting dinner is private. Wilbur orders in for them, snatching away the menu before George can even get a good look at it. He’s had to give up so much already that if he wants to pick out their meals for the rest of their days, George is fine with that. It could never compare to the sacrifice he made to stay here.

On any other day, serving him a braised rabbit leg would be a coincidence. It still could be. Believing that protects his heart.

Wilbur’s eyes tell a different story. George feels truly seen by them when he looks up from the dish, his heart rate speeding up when he recognizes what it is. He’s not being looked through to watch if someone is appraising them. All Wilbur sees is him.

He allows himself to hope, because it feels like it could be love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I read and respond to all the comments I get, so if you want to, let me know what you thought! I do take constructive criticism.  
>  **edit:** hello nice people from tumblr! @ anyone who is here from fic recs on tumblr, you're awesome and i really appreciate you reading! to all those that have recommended this fic to others: i want you to know how grateful i am. that's never happened to me before and i freaked out when i saw people reading it!


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